XII. THE EVENTS OF TEN MONTHS
1. DECEMBER TO APRIL
Week after week, month after month, the time had flown by. Christmas hadpassed; dreary winter with dark evenings had given place to more drearywinter with light evenings. Thaws had ended in rain, rain in wind,wind in dust. Showery days had come--the period of pink dawns and whitesunsets; with the third week in April the cuckoo had appeared, with thefourth, the nightingale.
Edward Springrove was in London, attending to the duties of hisnew office, and it had become known throughout the neighbourhood ofCarriford that the engagement between himself and Miss Adelaide Hintonwould terminate in marriage at the end of the year.
The only occasion on which her lover of the idle delicious days atBudmouth watering-place had been seen by Cytherea after the time of thedecisive correspondence, was once in church, when he sat in front ofher, and beside Miss Hinton.
The rencounter was quite an accident. Springrove had come there in thefull belief that Cytherea was away from home with Miss Aldclyffe; and hecontinued ignorant of her presence throughout the service.
It is at such moments as these, when a sensitive nature writhes underthe conception that its most cherished emotions have been treated withcontumely, that the sphere-descended Maid, Music, friend of Pleasureat other times, becomes a positive enemy--racking, bewildering,unrelenting. The congregation sang the first Psalm and came to theverse--
'Like some fair tree which, fed by streams, With timely fruit doth bend, He still shall flourish, and success All his designs attend.'
Cytherea's lips did not move, nor did any sound escape her; but couldshe help singing the words in the depths of her being, although the manto whom she applied them sat at her rival's side?
Perhaps the moral compensation for all a woman's petty clevernessunder thriving conditions is the real nobility that lies in her extremefoolishness at these other times; her sheer inability to be simplyjust, her exercise of an illogical power entirely denied to men ingeneral--the power not only of kissing, but of delighting to kiss therod by a punctilious observance of the self-immolating doctrines in theSermon on the Mount.
As for Edward--a little like other men of his temperament, to whom, itis somewhat humiliating to think, the aberrancy of a given love is initself a recommendation--his sentiment, as he looked over his cousin'sbook, was of a lower rank, Horatian rather than Psalmodic--
'O, what hast thou of her, of her Whose every look did love inspire; Whose every breathing fanned my fire, And stole me from myself away!'
Then, without letting him see her, Cytherea slipt out of church early,and went home, the tones of the organ still lingering in her ears as shetried bravely to kill a jealous thought that would nevertheless live:'My nature is one capable of more, far more, intense feeling than hers!She can't appreciate all the sides of him--she never will! He is moretangible to me even now, as a thought, than his presence itself is toher!' She was less noble then.
But she continually repressed her misery and bitterness of heart tillthe effort to do so showed signs of lessening. At length she even triedto hope that her lost lover and her rival would love one another verydearly.
The scene and the sentiment dropped into the past. Meanwhile, Manstoncontinued visibly before her. He, though quiet and subdued in hisbearing for a long time after the calamity of November, had notsimulated a grief that he did not feel. At first his loss seemed soto absorb him--though as a startling change rather than as a heavysorrow--that he paid Cytherea no attention whatever. His conduct wasuniformly kind and respectful, but little more. Then, as the date of thecatastrophe grew remoter, he began to wear a different aspect towardsher. He always contrived to obliterate by his manner all recollection onher side that she was comparatively more dependent than himself--makingmuch of her womanhood, nothing of her situation. Prompt to aid herwhenever occasion offered, and full of delightful petits soins at alltimes, he was not officious. In this way he irresistibly won for himselfa position as her friend, and the more easily in that he allowed not thefaintest symptom of the old love to be apparent.
Matters stood thus in the middle of the spring when the next move on hisbehalf was made by Miss Aldclyffe.
2. THE THIRD OF MAY
She led Cytherea to a summer-house called the Fane, built in the privategrounds about the mansion in the form of a Grecian temple; it overlookedthe lake, the island on it, the trees, and their undisturbed reflectionin the smooth still water. Here the old and young maid halted; here theystood, side by side, mentally imbibing the scene.
The month was May--the time, morning. Cuckoos, thrushes, blackbirds, andsparrows gave forth a perfect confusion of song and twitter. The roadwas spotted white with the fallen leaves of apple-blossoms, and thesparkling grey dew still lingered on the grass and flowers. Two swansfloated into view in front of the women, and then crossed the watertowards them.
'They seem to come to us without any will of their own--quiteinvoluntarily--don't they?' said Cytherea, looking at the birds'graceful advance.
'Yes, but if you look narrowly you can see their hips just beneath thewater, working with the greatest energy.'
'I'd rather not see that, it spoils the idea of proud indifference todirection which we associate with a swan.'
'It does; we'll have "involuntarily." Ah, now this reminds me ofsomething.'
'Of what?'
'Of a human being who involuntarily comes towards yourself.'
Cytherea looked into Miss Aldclyffe's face; her eyes grew round ascircles, and lines of wonderment came visibly upon her countenance.She had not once regarded Manston as a lover since his wife's suddenappearance and subsequent death. The death of a wife, and such a death,was an overwhelming matter in her ideas of things.
'Is it a man or woman?' she said, quite innocently.
'Mr. Manston,' said Miss Aldclyffe quietly.
'Mr. Manston attracted by me _now_?' said Cytherea, standing at gaze.
'Didn't you know it?'
'Certainly I did not. Why, his poor wife has only been dead six months.'
'Of course he knows that. But loving is not done by months, or method,or rule, or nobody would ever have invented such a phrase as "fallingin love." He does not want his love to be observed just yet, on the veryaccount you mention but conceal it as he may from himself and us, itexists definitely--and very intensely, I assure you.'
'I suppose then, that if he can't help it, it is no harm of him,' saidCytherea naively, and beginning to ponder.
'Of course it isn't--you know that well enough. She was a great burdenand trouble to him. This may become a great good to you both.'
A rush of feeling at remembering that the same woman, before Manston'sarrival, had just as frankly advocated Edward's claims, checkedCytherea's utterance for awhile.
'There, don't look at me like that, for Heaven's sake!' said MissAldclyffe. 'You could almost kill a person by the force of reproach youcan put into those eyes of yours, I verily believe.'
Edward once in the young lady's thoughts, there was no getting rid ofhim. She wanted to be alone.
'Do you want me here?' she said.
'Now there, there; you want to be off, and have a good cry,' said MissAldclyffe, taking her hand. 'But you mustn't, my dear. There's nothingin the past for you to regret. Compare Mr. Manston's honourable conducttowards his wife and yourself, with Springrove towards his betrothed andyourself, and then see which appears the more worthy of your thoughts.'
3. FROM THE FOURTH OF MAY TO THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE
The next stage in Manston's advances towards her hand was a clearlydefined courtship. She was sadly perplexed, and some contrivance wasnecessary on his part in order to meet with her. But it is next toimpossible for an appreciative woman to have a positive repugnancetowards an unusually handsome and gifted man, even though she may not beinclined to love him. Hence Cytherea was not so alarmed at the sight ofhim as to render a meeting and conversation with her more than a matterof diffi
culty.
Coming and going from church was his grand opportunity. Manston was veryreligious now. It is commonly said that no man was ever converted byargument, but there is a single one which will make any Laodicean inEngland, let him be once love-sick, wear prayer-books and become azealous Episcopalian--the argument that his sweetheart can be seen fromhis pew.
Manston introduced into his method a system of bewitching flattery,everywhere pervasive, yet, too, so transitory and intangible, that, asin the case of the poet Wordsworth and the Wandering Voice, though shefelt it present, she could never find it. As a foil to heighten itseffect, he occasionally spoke philosophically of the evanescence offemale beauty--the worthlessness of mere appearance. 'Handsome is thathandsome does' he considered a proverb which should be written on thelooking-glass of every woman in the land. 'Your form, your motions, yourheart have won me,' he said, in a tone of playful sadness. 'They arebeautiful. But I see these things, and it comes into my mind that theyare doomed, they are gliding to nothing as I look. Poor eyes, poormouth, poor face, poor maiden! "Where will her glories be in twentyyears?" I say. "Where will all of her be in a hundred?" Then I thinkit is cruel that you should bloom a day, and fade for ever and ever. Itseems hard and sad that you will die as ordinarily as I, and be buried;be food for roots and worms, be forgotten and come to earth, and grow upa mere blade of churchyard-grass and an ivy leaf. Then, Miss Graye, whenI see you are a Lovely Nothing, I pity you, and the love I feel thenis better and sounder, larger and more lasting than that I felt at thebeginning.' Again an ardent flash of his handsome eyes.
It was by this route that he ventured on an indirect declaration andoffer of his hand.
She implied in the same indirect manner that she did not love him enoughto accept it.
An actual refusal was more than he had expected. Cursing himself forwhat he called his egregious folly in making himself the slave of a merelady's attendant, and for having given the parish, should they knowof her refusal, a chance of sneering at him--certainly a ground forthinking less of his standing than before--he went home to the OldHouse, and walked indecisively up and down his back-yard. Turning aside,he leant his arms upon the edge of the rain-water-butt standing in thecorner, and looked into it. The reflection from the smooth stagnantsurface tinged his face with the greenish shades of Correggio's nudes.Staves of sunlight slanted down through the still pool, lighting itup with wonderful distinctness. Hundreds of thousands of minute livingcreatures sported and tumbled in its depth with every contortion thatgaiety could suggest; perfectly happy, though consisting only of a head,or a tail, or at most a head and a tail, and all doomed to die withinthe twenty-four hours.
'Damn my position! Why shouldn't I be happy through my little day too?Let the parish sneer at my repulses, let it. I'll get her, if I moveheaven and earth to do it!'
Indeed, the inexperienced Cytherea had, towards Edward in the firstplace, and Manston afterwards, unconsciously adopted bearings that wouldhave been the very tactics of a professional fisher of men who wishedto have them each successively dangling at her heels. For if any ruleat all can be laid down in a matter which, for men collectively, isnotoriously beyond regulation, it is that to snub a petted man, and topet a snubbed man, is the way to win in suits of both kinds. Manstonwith Springrove's encouragement would have become indifferent. Edwardwith Manston's repulses would have sheered off at the outset, as he didafterwards. Her supreme indifference added fuel to Manston's ardour--itcompletely disarmed his pride. The invulnerable Nobody seemed greater tohim than a susceptible Princess.
4. FROM THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE TO THE END OF JULY
Cytherea had in the meantime received the following letter from herbrother. It was the first definite notification of the enlargementof that cloud no bigger than a man's hand which had for nearly atwelvemonth hung before them in the distance, and which was soon to givea colour to their whole sky from horizon to horizon.
'BUDMOUTH REGIS,
Saturday.
'DARLING SIS,--I have delayed telling you for a long time of alittle matter which, though not one to be seriously alarmed about, issufficiently vexing, and it would be unfair in me to keep it from youany longer. It is that for some time past I have again been distressedby that lameness which I first distinctly felt when we went to LulsteadCove, and again when I left Knapwater that morning early. It is anunusual pain in my left leg, between the knee and the ankle. I had justfound fresh symptoms of it when you were here for that half-hour about amonth ago--when you said in fun that I began to move like an old man. Ihad a good mind to tell you then, but fancying it would go off in afew days, I thought it was not worth while. Since that time it hasincreased, but I am still able to work in the office, sitting on thestool. My great fear is that Mr. G. will have some out-door measuringwork for me to do soon, and that I shall be obliged to decline it.However, we will hope for the best. How it came, what was its origin, orwhat it tends to, I cannot think. You shall hear again in a day or two,if it is no better...--Your loving brother, OWEN.'
This she answered, begging to know the worst, which she could bear, butsuspense and anxiety never. In two days came another letter from him, ofwhich the subjoined paragraph is a portion:--
'I had quite decided to let you know the worst, and to assure you thatit was the worst, before you wrote to ask it. And again I give youmy word that I will conceal nothing--so that there will be no excusewhatever for your wearing yourself out with fears that I am worse than Isay. This morning then, for the first time, I have been obliged to stayaway from the office. Don't be frightened at this, dear Cytherea. Restis all that is wanted, and by nursing myself now for a week, I may avoidan illness of six months.'
After a visit from her he wrote again:--
'Dr. Chestman has seen me. He said that the ailment was some sort ofrheumatism, and I am now undergoing proper treatment for its cure. Myleg and foot have been placed in hot bran, liniments have been applied,and also severe friction with a pad. He says I shall be as right as everin a very short time. Directly I am I shall run up by the train to seeyou. Don't trouble to come to me if Miss Aldclyffe grumbles again aboutyour being away, for I am going on capitally.... You shall hear again atthe end of the week.'
At the time mentioned came the following:--
'I am sorry to tell you, because I know it will be so dishearteningafter my last letter, that I am not so well as I was then, and thatthere has been a sort of hitch in the proceedings. After I had beentreated for rheumatism a few days longer (in which treatment theypricked the place with a long needle several times,) I saw that Dr.Chestman was in doubt about something, and I requested that he wouldcall in a brother professional man to see me as well. They consultedtogether and then told me that rheumatism was not the disease after all,but erysipelas. They then began treating it differently, as became adifferent matter. Blisters, flour, and starch, seem to be the order ofthe day now--medicine, of course, besides.
'Mr. Gradfield has been in to inquire about me. He says he has beenobliged to get a designer in my place, which grieves me very much,though, of course, it could not be avoided.'
A month passed away; throughout this period, Cytherea visited himas often as the limited time at her command would allow, and wore ascheerful a countenance as the womanly determination to do nothing whichmight depress him could enable her to wear. Another letter from him thentold her these additional facts:--
'The doctors find they are again on the wrong tack. They cannot make outwhat the disease is. O Cytherea! how I wish they knew! This suspense iswearing me out. Could not Miss Aldclyffe spare you for a day? Do come tome. We will talk about the best course then. I am sorry to complain, butI am worn out.'
Cytherea went to Miss Aldclyffe, and told her of the melancholy turn herbrother's illness had taken. Miss Aldclyffe at once said that Cythereamight go, and offered to do anything to assist her which lay in herpower. Cytherea's eyes beamed gratitude as she turned to leave the room,and hasten to the station
.
'O, Cytherea,' said Miss Aldclyffe, calling her back; 'just one word.Has Mr. Manston spoken to you lately?'
'Yes,' said Cytherea, blushing timorously.
'He proposed?'
'Yes.'
'And you refused him?'
'Yes.'
'Tut, tut! Now listen to my advice,' said Miss Aldclyffe emphatically,'and accept him before he changes his mind. The chance which he offersyou of settling in life is one that may possibly, probably, not occuragain. His position is good and secure, and the life of his wife wouldbe a happy one. You may not be sure that you love him madly; but supposeyou are not sure? My father used to say to me as a child when he wasteaching me whist, "When in doubt win the trick!" That advice is tentimes as valuable to a woman on the subject of matrimony. In refusing aman there is always the risk that you may never get another offer.'
'Why didn't you win the trick when you were a girl?' said Cytherea.
'Come, my lady Pert; I'm not the text,' said Miss Aldclyffe, her faceglowing like fire.
Cytherea laughed stealthily.
'I was about to say,' resumed Miss Aldclyffe severely, 'that here isMr. Manston waiting with the tenderest solicitude for you, and youoverlooking it, as if it were altogether beneath you. Think how youmight benefit your sick brother if you were Mrs. Manston. You willplease me _very much_ by giving him some encouragement. You understandme, Cythie dear?'
Cytherea was silent.
'And,' said Miss Aldclyffe, still more emphatically, 'on your promisingthat you will accept him some time this year, I will take especial careof your brother. You are listening, Cytherea?'
'Yes,' she whispered, leaving the room.
She went to Budmouth, passed the day with her brother, and returned toKnapwater wretched and full of foreboding. Owen had looked startlinglythin and pale--thinner and paler than ever she had seen him before. Thebrother and sister had that day decided that notwithstanding the drainupon their slender resources, another surgeon should see him. Time waseverything.
Owen told her the result in his next letter:--
'The three practitioners between them have at last hit the nail on thehead, I hope. They probed the place, and discovered that the secret layin the bone. I underwent an operation for its removal three days ago(after taking chloroform)... Thank God it is over. Though I am so weak,my spirits are rather better. I wonder when I shall be at work again?I asked the surgeons how long it would be first. I said a month? Theyshook their heads. A year? I said. Not so long, they said. Six months? Iinquired. They would not, or could not, tell me. But never mind.
'Run down, when you have half a day to spare, for the hours drag on sodrearily. O Cytherea, you can't think how drearily!'
She went. Immediately on her departure Miss Aldclyffe sent a note to theOld House, to Manston. On the maiden's return, tired and sick at heartas usual, she found Manston at the station awaiting her. He askedpolitely if he might accompany her to Knapwater. She tacitly acquiesced.During their walk he inquired the particulars of her brother's illness,and with an irresistible desire to pour out her trouble to some one,she told him of the length of time which must elapse before he could bestrong again, and of the lack of comfort in lodgings.
Manston was silent awhile. Then he said impetuously: 'Miss Graye, I willnot mince matters--I love you--you know it. Stratagem they say is fairin love, and I am compelled to adopt it now. Forgive me, for I cannothelp it. Consent to be my wife at any time that may suit you--any remoteday you may name will satisfy me--and you shall find him well providedfor.'
For the first time in her life she truly dreaded the handsome man ather side who pleaded thus selfishly, and shrank from the hot voluptuousnature of his passion for her, which, disguise it as he might under aquiet and polished exterior, at times radiated forth with a scorchingwhite heat. She perceived how animal was the love which bargained.
'I do not love you, Mr. Manston,' she replied coldly.
5. FROM THE FIRST TO THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF AUGUST
The long sunny days of the later summer-time brought only the samedreary accounts from Budmouth, and saw Cytherea paying the same sadvisits.
She grew perceptibly weaker, in body and mind. Manston still persistedin his suit, but with more of his former indirectness, now that he sawhow unexpectedly well she stood an open attack. His was the system ofDares at the Sicilian games--
'He, like a captain who beleaguers round Some strong-built castle on a rising ground, Views all the approaches with observing eyes, This and that other part again he tries, And more on industry than force relies.'
Miss Aldclyffe made it appear more clearly than ever that aid toOwen from herself depended entirely upon Cytherea's acceptance ofher steward. Hemmed in and distressed, Cytherea's answers to hisimportunities grew less uniform; they were firm, or wavering, as Owen'smalady fluctuated. Had a register of her pitiful oscillations been kept,it would have rivalled in pathos the diary wherein De Quincey tabulateshis combat with Opium--perhaps as noticeable an instance as any in whicha thrilling dramatic power has been given to mere numerals. Thus shewearily and monotonously lived through the month, listening on Sundaysto the well-known round of chapters narrating the history of Elijah andElisha in famine and drought; on week-days to buzzing flies in hot sunnyrooms. 'So like, so very like, was day to day.' Extreme lassitude seemedall that the world could show her.
Her state was in this wise, when one afternoon, having been with herbrother, she met the surgeon, and begged him to tell the actual truthconcerning Owen's condition.
The reply was that he feared that the first operation had not beenthorough; that although the wound had healed, another attempt mightstill be necessary, unless nature were left to effect her own cure. Butthe time such a self-healing proceeding would occupy might be ruinous.
'How long would it be?' she said.
'It is impossible to say. A year or two, more or less.'
'And suppose he submitted to another artificial extraction?'
'Then he might be well in four or six months.'
Now the remainder of his and her possessions, together with a sum he hadborrowed, would not provide him with necessary comforts for halfthat time. To combat the misfortune, there were two courses open--herbecoming betrothed to Manston, or the sending Owen to the CountyHospital.
Thus terrified, driven into a corner, panting and fluttering about forsome loophole of escape, yet still shrinking from the idea of beingManston's wife, the poor little bird endeavoured to find out fromMiss Aldclyffe whether it was likely Owen would be well treated in thehospital.
'County Hospital!' said Miss Aldclyffe; 'why, it is only anothername for slaughter-house--in surgical cases at any rate. Certainly ifanything about your body is snapt in two they do join you together ina fashion, but 'tis so askew and ugly, that you may as well be apartagain.' Then she terrified the inquiring and anxious maiden by relatinghorrid stories of how the legs and arms of poor people were cut off at amoment's notice, especially in cases where the restorative treatment waslikely to be long and tedious.
'You know how willing I am to help you, Cytherea,' she addedreproachfully. 'You know it. Why are you so obstinate then? Why do youselfishly bar the clear, honourable, and only sisterly path which leadsout of this difficulty? I cannot, on my conscience, countenance you; no,I cannot.'
Manston once more repeated his offer; and once more she refused, butthis time weakly, and with signs of an internal struggle. Manston's eyesparkled; he saw for the hundredth time in his life, that perseverance,if only systematic, was irresistible by womankind.
6. THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF AUGUST
On going to Budmouth three days later, she found to her surprise thatthe steward had been there, had introduced himself, and had seen herbrother. A few delicacies had been brought him also by the same hand.Owen spoke in warm terms of Manston and his free and unceremonious call,as he could not have refrained from doing of any person, of any kind,whose presence had served to help away the tedious hour
s of a long day,and who had, moreover, shown that sort of consideration for him whichthe accompanying basket implied--antecedent consideration, so tellingupon all invalids--and which he so seldom experienced except from thehands of his sister.
How should he perceive, amid this tithe-paying of mint, and anise, andcummin, the weightier matters which were left undone?
Again the steward met her at Carriford Road Station on her returnjourney. Instead of being frigid as at the former meeting at the sameplace, she was embarrassed by a strife of thought, and murmured brokenlyher thanks for what he had done. The same request that he might see herhome was made.
He had perceived his error in making his kindness to Owen a conditionalkindness, and had hastened to efface all recollection of it. 'Though Ilet my offer on her brother's--my friend's--behalf, seem dependent on mylady's graciousness to me,' he whispered wooingly in the course of theirwalk, 'I could not conscientiously adhere to my statement; it was saidwith all the impulsive selfishness of love. Whether you choose to haveme, or whether you don't, I love you too devotedly to be anything butkind to your brother.... Miss Graye, Cytherea, I will do anything,' hecontinued earnestly, 'to give you pleasure--indeed I will.'
She saw on the one hand her poor and much-loved Owen recovering fromhis illness and troubles by the disinterested kindness of the manbeside her, on the other she drew him dying, wholly by reason of herself-enforced poverty. To marry this man was obviously the course ofcommon sense, to refuse him was impolitic temerity. There was reasonin this. But there was more behind than a hundred reasons--a woman'sgratitude and her impulse to be kind.
The wavering of her mind was visible in her tell-tale face. He noticedit, and caught at the opportunity.
They were standing by the ruinous foundations of an old mill in themidst of a meadow. Between grey and half-overgrown stonework--the onlysigns of masonry remaining--the water gurgled down from the old millpondto a lower level, under the cloak of rank broad leaves--the sensuousnatures of the vegetable world. On the right hand the sun, resting onthe horizon-line, streamed across the ground from below copper-colouredand lilac clouds, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of pale softgreen. All dark objects on the earth that lay towards the sun wereoverspread by a purple haze, against which a swarm of wailing gnatsshone forth luminously, rising upward and floating away like sparks offire.
The stillness oppressed and reduced her to mere passivity. The onlywish the humidity of the place left in her was to stand motionless.The helpless flatness of the landscape gave her, as it gives all suchtemperaments, a sense of bare equality with, and no superiority to, asingle entity under the sky.
He came so close that their clothes touched. 'Will you try to love me?Do try to love me!' he said, in a whisper, taking her hand. He had nevertaken it before. She could feel his hand trembling exceedingly as itheld hers in its clasp.
Considering his kindness to her brother, his love for herself, andEdward's fickleness, ought she to forbid him to do this? How trulypitiful it was to feel his hand tremble so--all for her! Should shewithdraw her hand? She would think whether she would. Thinking, andhesitating, she looked as far as the autumnal haze on the marshyground would allow her to see distinctly. There was the fragment of ahedge--all that remained of a 'wet old garden'--standing in the middleof the mead, without a definite beginning or ending, purposeless andvalueless. It was overgrown, and choked with mandrakes, and she couldalmost fancy she heard their shrieks.... Should she withdraw her hand?No, she could not withdraw it now; it was too late, the act would notimply refusal. She felt as one in a boat without oars, drifting withclosed eyes down a river--she knew not whither.
He gave her hand a gentle pressure, and relinquished it.
Then it seemed as if he were coming to the point again. No, he was notgoing to urge his suit that evening. Another respite.
7. THE EARLY PART OF SEPTEMBER
Saturday came, and she went on some trivial errand to the villagepost-office. It was a little grey cottage with a luxuriant jasmineencircling the doorway, and before going in Cytherea paused to admirethis pleasing feature of the exterior. Hearing a step on the gravelbehind the corner of the house, she resigned the jasmine and entered.Nobody was in the room. She could hear Mrs. Leat, the widow who actedas postmistress, walking about over her head. Cytherea was going to thefoot of the stairs to call Mrs. Leat, but before she had accomplishedher object, another form stood at the half-open door. Manston came in.
'Both on the same errand,' he said gracefully.
'I will call her,' said Cytherea, moving in haste to the foot of thestairs.
'One moment.' He glided to her side. 'Don't call her for a moment,' herepeated.
But she had said, 'Mrs. Leat!'
He seized Cytherea's hand, kissed it tenderly, and carefully replaced itby her side.
She had that morning determined to check his further advances, until shehad thoroughly considered her position. The remonstrance was now on hertongue, but as accident would have it, before the word could bespoken Mrs. Leat was stepping from the last stair to the floor, and noremonstrance came.
With the subtlety which characterized him in all his dealings with her,he quickly concluded his own errand, bade her a good-bye, in the tonesof which love was so garnished with pure politeness that it only showedits presence to herself, and left the house--putting it out of herpower to refuse him her companionship homeward, or to object to his lateaction of kissing her hand.
The Friday of the next week brought another letter from her brother. Inthis he informed her that, in absolute grief lest he should distress herunnecessarily, he had some time earlier borrowed a few pounds. A weekago, he said, his creditor became importunate, but that on the dayon which he wrote, the creditor had told him there was no hurry for asettlement, that 'his _sister's suitor_ had guaranteed the sum.' 'Is heMr. Manston? tell me, Cytherea,' said Owen.
He also mentioned that a wheeled chair had been anonymously hiredfor his especial use, though as yet he was hardly far enough advancedtowards convalescence to avail himself of the luxury. 'Is this Mr.Manston's doing?' he inquired.
She could dally with her perplexity, evade it, trust to time forguidance, no longer. The matter had come to a crisis: she must once andfor all choose between the dictates of her understanding and those ofher heart. She longed, till her soul seemed nigh to bursting, for herlost mother's return to earth, but for one minute, that she might havetender counsel to guide her through this, her great difficulty.
As for her heart, she half fancied that it was not Edward's to quitethe extent that it once had been; she thought him cruel in conductinghimself towards her as he did at Budmouth, cruel afterwards in making solight of her. She knew he had stifled his love for her--was utterlylost to her. But for all that she could not help indulging in a woman'spleasure of recreating defunct agonies, and lacerating herself with themnow and then.
'If I were rich,' she thought, 'I would give way to the luxury of beingmorbidly faithful to him for ever without his knowledge.'
But she considered; in the first place she was a homeless dependent;and what did practical wisdom tell her to do under such desperatecircumstances? To provide herself with some place of refuge frompoverty, and with means to aid her brother Owen. This was to be Mr.Manston's wife.
She did not love him.
But what was love without a home? Misery. What was a home without love?Alas, not much; but still a kind of home.
'Yes,' she thought, 'I am urged by my common sense to marry Mr.Manston.'
Did anything nobler in her say so too?
With the death (to her) of Edward her heart's occupation was gone. Wasit necessary or even right for her to tend it and take care of it as sheused to in the old time, when it was still a capable minister?
By a slight sacrifice here she could give happiness to at least twohearts whose emotional activities were still unwounded. She would dogood to two men whose lives were far more important than hers.
'Yes,' she said again, 'even Christianit
y urges me to marry Mr.Manston.'
Directly Cytherea had persuaded herself that a kind of heroicself-abnegation had to do with the matter, she became much more contentin the consideration of it. A wilful indifference to the future was whatreally prevailed in her, ill and worn out, as she was, by the perpetualharassments of her sad fortune, and she regarded this indifference, asgushing natures will do under such circumstances, as genuine resignationand devotedness.
Manston met her again the following day: indeed, there was no escapinghim now. At the end of a short conversation between them, which tookplace in the hollow of the park by the waterfall, obscured on the outerside by the low hanging branches of the limes, she tacitly assented tohis assumption of a privilege greater than any that had preceded it. Hestooped and kissed her brow.
Before going to bed she wrote to Owen explaining the whole matter. Itwas too late in the evening for the postman's visit, and she placed theletter on the mantelpiece to send it the next day.
The morning (Sunday) brought a hurried postscript to Owen's letter ofthe day before:--
'September 9, 1865.
'DEAR CYTHEREA--I have received a frank and friendly letter from Mr.Manston explaining the position in which he stands now, and also that inwhich he hopes to stand towards you. Can't you love him? Why not? Try,for he is a good, and not only that, but a cultured man. Think of theweary and laborious future that awaits you if you continue for life inyour present position, and do you see any way of escape from it exceptby marriage? I don't. Don't go against your heart, Cytherea, but bewise.--Ever affectionately yours, OWEN.'
She thought that probably he had replied to Mr. Manston in the samefavouring mood. She had a conviction that that day would settle herdoom. Yet
'So true a fool is love,'
that even now she nourished a half-hope that something would happen atthe last moment to thwart her deliberately-formed intentions, and favourthe old emotion she was using all her strength to thrust down.
8. THE TENTH OF SEPTEMBER
The Sunday was the thirteenth after Trinity, and the afternoon serviceat Carriford was nearly over. The people were singing the Evening Hymn.
Manston was at church as usual in his accustomed place two seats forwardfrom the large square pew occupied by Miss Aldclyffe and Cytherea.
The ordinary sadness of an autumnal evening-service seemed, inCytherea's eyes, to be doubled on this particular occasion. She lookedat all the people as they stood and sang, waving backwards and forwardslike a forest of pines swayed by a gentle breeze; then at the villagechildren singing too, their heads inclined to one side, their eyeslistlessly tracing some crack in the old walls, or following themovement of a distant bough or bird with features petrified almost topainfulness. Then she looked at Manston he was already regarding herwith some purpose in his glance.
'It is coming this evening,' she said in her mind. A minute later, atthe end of the hymn, when the congregation began to move out, Manstoncame down the aisle. He was opposite the end of her seat as she steppedfrom it, the remainder of their progress to the door being in contactwith each other. Miss Aldclyffe had lingered behind.
'Don't let's hurry,' he said, when Cytherea was about to enter theprivate path to the House as usual. 'Would you mind turning down thisway for a minute till Miss Aldclyffe has passed?'
She could not very well refuse now. They turned into a secluded path ontheir left, leading round through a thicket of laurels to the other gateof the church-yard, walking very slowly. By the time the further gatewas reached, the church was closed. They met the sexton with the keys inhis hand.
'We are going inside for a minute,' said Manston to him, taking the keysunceremoniously. 'I will bring them to you when we return.'
The sexton nodded his assent, and Cytherea and Manston walked into theporch, and up the nave.
They did not speak a word during their progress, or in any way interferewith the stillness and silence that prevailed everywhere around them.Everything in the place was the embodiment of decay: the fadingred glare from the setting sun, which came in at the west window,emphasizing the end of the day and all its cheerful doings, the mildewedwalls, the uneven paving-stones, the wormy pews, the sense of recentoccupation, and the dank air of death which had gathered with theevening, would have made grave a lighter mood than Cytherea's was then.
'What sensations does the place impress you with?' she said at last,very sadly.
'I feel imperatively called upon to be honest, from very despair ofachieving anything by stratagem in a world where the materials are suchas these.' He, too, spoke in a depressed voice, purposely or otherwise.
'I feel as if I were almost ashamed to be seen walking such a world,'she murmured; 'that's the effect it has upon me; but it does not induceme to be honest particularly.'
He took her hand in both his, and looked down upon the lids of her eyes.
'I pity you sometimes,' he said more emphatically.
'I am pitiable, perhaps; so are many people. Why do you pity me?'
'I think that you make yourself needlessly sad.'
'Not needlessly.'
'Yes, needlessly. Why should you be separated from your brother so much,when you might have him to stay with you till he is well?'
'That can't be,' she said, turning away.
He went on, 'I think the real and only good thing that can be done forhim is to get him away from Budmouth awhile; and I have been wonderingwhether it could not be managed for him to come to my house to live fora few weeks. Only a quarter of a mile from you. How pleasant it wouldbe!'
'It would.'
He moved himself round immediately to the front of her, and held herhand more firmly, as he continued, 'Cytherea, why do you say "It would,"so entirely in the tone of abstract supposition? I want him there: Iwant him to be my brother, too. Then make him so, and be my wife! Icannot live without you. O Cytherea, my darling, my love, come and be mywife!'
His face bent closer and closer to hers, and the last words sank to awhisper as weak as the emotion inspiring it was strong.
She said firmly and distinctly, 'Yes, I will.'
'Next month?' he said on the instant, before taking breath.
'No; not next month.'
'The next?'
'No.'
'December? Christmas Day, say?'
'I don't mind.'
'O, you darling!' He was about to imprint a kiss upon her pale, coldmouth, but she hastily covered it with her hand.
'Don't kiss me--at least where we are now!' she whispered imploringly.
'Why?'
'We are too near God.'
He gave a sudden start, and his face flushed. She had spoken soemphatically that the words 'Near God' echoed back again through thehollow building from the far end of the chancel.
'What a thing to say!' he exclaimed; 'surely a pure kiss is notinappropriate to the place!'
'No,' she replied, with a swelling heart; 'I don't know why I burst outso--I can't tell what has come over me! Will you forgive me?'
'How shall I say "Yes" without judging you? How shall I say "No" withoutlosing the pleasure of saying "Yes?"' He was himself again.
'I don't know,' she absently murmured.
'I'll say "Yes,"' he answered daintily. 'It is sweeter to fancy weare forgiven, than to think we have not sinned; and you shall have thesweetness without the need.'
She did not reply, and they moved away. The church was nearly dark now,and melancholy in the extreme. She stood beside him while he lockedthe door, then took the arm he gave her, and wound her way out of thechurchyard with him. Then they walked to the house together, but thegreat matter having been set at rest, she persisted in talking only onindifferent subjects.
'Christmas Day, then,' he said, as they were parting at the end of theshrubbery.
'I meant Old Christmas Day,' she said evasively.
'H'm, people do not usually attach that meaning to the words.'
'No; but I should
like it best if it could not be till then?' It seemedto be still her instinct to delay the marriage to the utmost.
'Very well, love,' he said gently. ''Tis a fortnight longer still; butnever mind. Old Christmas Day.'
9. THE ELEVENTH OF SEPTEMBER
'There. It will be on a Friday!'
She sat upon a little footstool gazing intently into the fire. It wasthe afternoon of the day following that of the steward's successfulsolicitation of her hand.
'I wonder if it would be proper in me to run across the park and tellhim it is a Friday?' she said to herself, rising to her feet, lookingat her hat lying near, and then out of the window towards the OldHouse. Proper or not, she felt that she must at all hazards remove thedisagreeable, though, as she herself owned, unfounded impression thecoincidence had occasioned. She left the house directly, and went tosearch for him.
Manston was in the timber-yard, looking at the sawyers as they worked.Cytherea came up to him hesitatingly. Till within a distance of a fewyards she had hurried forward with alacrity--now that the practicalexpression of his face became visible she wished almost she had neversought him on such an errand; in his business-mood he was perhaps verystern.
'It will be on a Friday,' she said confusedly, and without any preface.
'Come this way!' said Manston, in the tone he used for workmen, notbeing able to alter at an instant's notice. He gave her his arm andled her back into the avenue, by which time he was lover again. 'Ona Friday, will it, dearest? You do not mind Fridays, surely? That'snonsense.'
'Not seriously mind them, exactly--but if it could be any other day?'
'Well, let us say Old Christmas Eve, then. Shall it be Old ChristmasEve?'
'Yes, Old Christmas Eve.'
'Your word is solemn, and irrevocable now?'
'Certainly, I have solemnly pledged my word; I should not have promisedto marry you if I had not meant it. Don't think I should.' She spoke thewords with a dignified impressiveness.
'You must not be vexed at my remark, dearest. Can you think the worse ofan ardent man, Cytherea, for showing some anxiety in love?'
'No, no.' She could not say more. She was always ill at ease when hespoke of himself as a piece of human nature in that analytical way, andwanted to be out of his presence. The time of day, and the proximityof the house, afforded her a means of escape. 'I must be with MissAldclyffe now--will you excuse my hasty coming and going?' she saidprettily. Before he had replied she had parted from him.
'Cytherea, was it Mr. Manston I saw you scudding away from in the avenuejust now?' said Miss Aldclyffe, when Cytherea joined her.
'Yes.'
'"Yes." Come, why don't you say more than that? I hate those taciturn"Yesses" of yours. I tell you everything, and yet you are as close aswax with me.'
'I parted from him because I wanted to come in.'
'What a novel and important announcement! Well, is the day fixed?'
'Yes.'
Miss Aldclyffe's face kindled into intense interest at once. 'Is itindeed? When is it to be?'
'On Old Christmas Eve.'
'Old Christmas Eve.' Miss Aldclyffe drew Cytherea round to her front,and took a hand in each of her own. 'And then you will be a bride!'she said slowly, looking with critical thoughtfulness upon the maiden'sdelicately rounded cheeks.
The normal area of the colour upon each of them decreased perceptiblyafter that slow and emphatic utterance by the elder lady.
Miss Aldclyffe continued impressively, 'You did not say "Old ChristmasEve" as a fiancee should have said the words: and you don't receive myremark with the warm excitement that foreshadows a bright future.... Howmany weeks are there to the time?'
'I have not reckoned them.'
'Not? Fancy a girl not counting the weeks! I find I must take thelead in this matter--you are so childish, or frightened, or stupid, orsomething, about it. Bring me my diary, and we will count them at once.'
Cytherea silently fetched the book.
Miss Aldclyffe opened the diary at the page containing the almanac,and counted sixteen weeks, which brought her to the thirty-first ofDecember--a Sunday. Cytherea stood by, looking on as if she had noappetite for the scene.
'Sixteen to the thirty-first. Then let me see, Monday will be the firstof January, Tuesday the second, Wednesday third, Thursday fourth, Fridayfifth--you have chosen a Friday, as I declare!'
'A Thursday, surely?' said Cytherea.
'No: Old Christmas Day comes on a Saturday.'
The perturbed little brain had reckoned wrong. 'Well, it must be aFriday,' she murmured in a reverie.
'No: have it altered, of course,' said Miss Aldclyffe cheerfully.'There's nothing bad in Friday, but such a creature as you will bethinking about its being unlucky--in fact, I wouldn't choose aFriday myself to be married on, since all the other days are equallyavailable.'
'I shall not have it altered,' said Cytherea firmly; 'it has beenaltered once already: I shall let it be.'